


The Most Important Meal of the Day

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, But What Else Is New in the World of Supernatural, Castiel in the Bunker, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Has a Sexuality Crisis, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s11e03 The Bad Seed, Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Spoilers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cameo featuring awkward sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5790610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas isn’t going to offer him silk panties anytime soon, but he’s definitely got something about him beyond pure, animalistic attraction. The dorky little dude’s saved his hide more times than Dean’s actually seen it, and he’s got this goofy, gummy smile he reserves for Dean and a heart that could melt Flagstaff and every contiguous city with just the slight tilt of his head. </p><p>“Dean, what are you doing?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Important Meal of the Day

Dean doesn’t know how he garnered lovey-dovey, pin-pricking, balls-to-his-throat feelings for an ex-service K-9 of the Lord, but having Castiel around the Bunker isn’t doing his puppy love any favors.

It’s bad enough waking up to his best friend every morning (What? Cas has been edgy since the fall of his pigeon friends. Dean would be damned if he died from something stupid like sleep deprivation, okay?). Having to walk out of his room with a Popsicle up his ass only to find Cas hovering over the kitchen stove wrapped up in his comforter _and_ fitted sheet was something else entirely.

Even if he looks like a long suffering doe-eyed pig in a blanket just holding out for summer and Sam gripes about having to mop the floor later with Dean’s constant drooling, it’s _still_ illegal.

Or when Cas buys another house plant only to have it die a few days later. (“Dean, I’ve done everything, I even printed out a care guide on one hundred different types of flora.”) Having to break it to Cas that sometimes things just _die—_ notwithstanding the Winchester’s zombie-ish tendency—is not the highlight of his week.

Even if embracing Cas afterwards is like hugging the cool side of his pillow for a solid few seconds and Cas makes this cute little muffled _mhhmph_ sound against his shoulder, it’s _still_ —wait, did he say _cute_?

Point _is_ no man or celestial being or whatever Cas identifies himself as nowadays should make him this flustered. The last time he was this lost on the magnetism map was with Rhonda Hurley, who he’d met at the after show of a Rocky Horror Picture Show drive-in.

Cas is… well, Cas isn’t going to offer him silk panties anytime soon, but he’s definitely got something about him beyond pure, animalistic attraction. The dorky little dude’s saved his hide more times than Dean’s actually _seen_ it, and he’s got this goofy, gummy smile he reserves for Dean and a heart that could melt Flagstaff and every contiguous city with just the slight tilt of his head.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Dean asks right back, even though it’s not much of an intelligible question.

Cas’s face scrunches like a headband. “I _said_ I might have found a lead on my Continental from the Google,” he states, searching his emerald eyes for the tiniest hint of understanding. “The one you said was _crappy_.”

“I didn’t say it was crappy, Sam’s the one who said it was crappy!”

“ _You know I may not have an angel inside me anymore, but I can still hear you,”_ Sam’s needling voice calls from the kitchen. Dean rolls the bullshit off his eyelids.

Cas is still gaping at him like a fish out of water. “What?” Dean argues, normally rugged voice cracking like a fresh egg on the sidewalk. “Continental, Megadouche, Waffle House, possible lead…”

He knows exactly what Cas is getting at. It’s in the way Dean’s arms are holding ten pounds of daddy issues and low self-esteem underneath his hands. It’s also how he’s been staring at Cas through rose-colored glasses he thought were long since broken. Oh yeah, and there might be a smirk on his face.

“Are you okay, Dean?”

“You mean minus the whole Dark Side of the Sun thing happening outside,” Dean snorts, not quite shaking himself from his reveries. Cas’s white collar is slightly upturned underneath his trench coat, baring a bold statement with an acre of white, hairless skin, and brown hair that looks like a clay project gone wrong the way it’s sculpted in every direction of the compass—“Yeah, I’m peachy.”

“I don’t understand, you bear no resemblance to a peach.”

“Yeah, well Pete Rose didn’t bat 1000, so.”

“Dean—”

“ _Cas,”_ Dean grunts. He supplies him with the same look he gave him in Purgatory when Cas told him in more than the spoken word that he didn’t have faith in himself.

Cas sighs through his nose and shifts his focus to the half-empty milk carton to the right of him. He twists the cap like he’s defusing a bomb as Sam returns from the kitchen with a bowl and a box of Cheerios. Cas nods his gratitude before he starts to torpidly tip the 2% into the bowl.

Dean stops him as cold as the dairy he’s pouring: “ _Wait.”_

Cas stills his hands on the carton. “What?”

Dean pushes out of his chair and steps behind Cas, wrapping his much more calloused hand around his. He guides Cas’s hand until it sets the milk down, then Dean grabs hold of the cereal box—the eye of the honey nut bee staring depreciatively into his soul—opens the top, and pours in more than the nutritional amount. Cas’s hands are warm, but he tries not to focus on that now.

He takes Cas’s same hand and weaves their fingers together as he grabs the milk again and pours.

Sam would’ve been better off making popcorn the way he slides ten inches of granola bar (read: flavored eraser shavings) into his mouth. His gaze travels to Dean and Cas, waiting for either men to say something when Dean doesn’t remove his hand.

A smile matches the blush spreading across Cas’s face, “I understand.”

***

Even if Cas should fall asleep that night cocooned in a fortress of fabric, Dean’s arms are wrapped around the coolest pillow he’s ever known. And if Sam should see on the way to his room, then let him.

Point is man or celestial being or whatever Cas identifies himself as nowadays, Dean is in love with the dorky little dude. And nothing in the world could convince him otherwise—not even the love note Cas leaves on the counter the following morning next to an empty bowl, a now ¾ of the way through milk carton, and Cheerios:

_Dean,_

_Always keep chugging._

_Cas_

_Xoxo_

Dean smiles and unscrews the lid only to be blasted by the smell of a farmer’s sewer.

He writes himself a mental note to teach Cas to leave certain foods in the fridge.


End file.
